


Criminal Christmases

by bistourylove



Category: MorMor - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcohol Abuse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Drug Smuggling, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Guns, Kissing, M/M, Murder, Reunion, Rimming, Self Harm, body dumping, murder boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:36:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2828510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bistourylove/pseuds/bistourylove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Ellery aka shakesqueare over on tumblr. This is the decent part of my MorMor Secret Santa gift for you...feel free to ignore the crappy art. I hope you don't mind I went with the old 5+1 Format. <br/>5 Christmases they were apart and the 1 they were together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Criminal Christmases

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goingbadly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/gifts).



> Please read tags before reading - not all of this is nice, actually maybe most of this is not fluffy.

1.  
As fas as first Christmases go, theirs was shite.   
Well, Sebastian’s was awful, sitting on a rooftop in Vladavostok in the dead of winter - have you any idea how cold it is in Russia in December? On a good day your coffee might not freeze in it’s thermos the moment you step outside. On a bad day, well. No amount of bundling in the expensive garments Jim had bought him for this particular job could keep him warm. He’d found a bit of Tyvek at the site of a mostly constructed building near the train station he was staking out, it helped a bit with the shock of the wind. Funny all the weird little things one picks up as a survivalist. Stealing insulation off buildings is tame compared to what Sebastian is prepared to do, or ingest if he’s left in the wild without the hope of back-up.   
At least the job was interesting, logistically speaking, as far as anything else was concerned - a murder is a murder is a murder. Sebastian was perched on top of a building on Berezoavaya ulitsa, which he called B street because all of those syllables were too round and awkward to fit into a mouth that had been school for dead languages from a tender age. He’s a great help if you ever need a sloppy translator for a romantic tongue but outside of that his skill set is near non-existent. So much for the usefulness of a public school upbringing, not in this line of work mind you.  
The snow was deep enough that his wind gage had been lost in it more than once since he’d set up. He didn’t need it but it was a little trinket from a time before he killed for profit, a reminder that at some point in his life he had tried to convince himself he had morals and failed miserably. His tripod was frozen to the spot, the feet had made enough heat as he was setting it up that it had melted some one the flakes closest to it, but now that it was still the snow had become ice in the absence of heat. He would only have four minutes to sight his target and get a bead on him before the train left again. He had been assured that Mr. Nimicolf would be sitting closest to the window seat on his side of the tracks. The assurance was genuine, as Moriarty would be the only soul in the car next to Sebastian’s hit.   
His mercurial employer had a way of making things happen, he could do it from a distance but if he set foot into play there was never a doubt his plan would be executed. Sebastian learned that lesson months ago, coming home late from roughing up a fence in Hackney. Now, to be perfectly honest, Sebastian will bed nearly anything with a pulse, so Jim as a sexual conquest had entered his mind before that fateful night. He just hadn’t seen himself as the prey, he never did before he met Jim. It was all tongues and teeth and burning sensations that his body eventually melted into. Just the memory of that first time warmed his bones a bit in the subarctic temperatures.   
Moran saw the headlights on the train coming from a distance, he hunkered down so that his cheek, roughed from repeated friction of the rifle action, was along his most trusted and beloved possession. He adjusted the setting on his Schmidt & Bender until it was perfection by the time the train was pulling into the station. The whistle sounded like a death knell in the early morning air, a forewarning to an earless platform. The train was empty, save for it’s cargo - an awful lot of buckwheat that had been procured in not so legal ways, and even more cocaine which was certainly not on the up and up; and Jim’s company.   
What a shame that the Narco-business in Russia would no longer belong to the families that had run the largest trade the world had ever seen. It would almost make Seb shrug if it weren’t for the fact that it was going to his employer. Jim doesn’t make bargains, he doesn’t go in for dividends and hope that there is a return in the end. He wants it all or nothing at all. And he is rarely happy to back off once his intentions are made clear. Sebastian steadies his breathing past the shiver that’s threatening to rattle his teeth loose. 

“Now, Mr. Nimicolf, it seems that I have been so very reasonable throughout this entire boring, albet beautiful train ride. However, we’ve still not managed to come to an agreement I am happy with.” Jim brushes his shoulders with well manicured nails, shooing away lint that isn’t there.  
“Happy with,” the sharp eyed Russian quips sarcastically “there is no agreement that would make you happy. What you want is ownership in the business my family has built. You cannot have it, it is not yours to take. It’s a birthright you see Mr. Moriarty.”  
“Could very well be your death inheritance if this is how you want to speak to me.” Jim flashes one of those ever so charming smiles he is known for giving just before someone connected to him dies.   
Sebastian can’t hear a damn thing, but he’s liking Jim’s body language. It would be a waste to have sat out here for this whole time and not get what he came for.   
“Do you not notice you are outnumbered?” Mr. Nimicolf gestures to the two armed men just outside the train car, a pitiful security detail. It is just too easy when a novice who should be a professional actually believes that Jim has come alone, even if he appears to have.   
“I think you’ll find I’m really not. It’s been a pleasure not doing business with you.” Jim is flippant, but professionally so, the way solicitors are at the end of a hearing. He lights a cigarette and his eyes glint.   
Seb sees the lighter in the end of his scope. It’s a breath in a breath out and a shot. This is easier with a spotter, there is a reason the military sends two to do the job of one finger, but there is also a reason Sebastian doesn’t need one. His shot hits the left carotid two seconds after it leaves his baby’s muzzle. A second and a half later a second shot cuts through the right carotid and the Russian didn’t even have time to react before he’s bleeding out across his cheaply tailored charcoal grey suit.   
Jim leans forward and lets out a puff of smoke. He’s close enough for Sebastian to see him smiling and waving through the crosshairs of the sight. Normally Sebastian would go for a head shot, it’s easy and there is that lovely sweet spot that makes them step once or twice before they stumble to ground with the grace of a methed up prima. But, with Jim there he has the unrelenting urge to impress and so, a nice signature shot that no one else in the world could pull off.   
The moment of reverie is short lived, as Sebastian is already packing up his kit and Jim is standing to leave the private compartment within the train car.   
“Thank you so very much for your cooperation.” Jim is all business, despite the fact that Sebastian’s showboating has him giddy and warm deep in his stomach.   
“Of course Mr. Moriarty, anytime.” One of the former Patriarchs son’s chimes in with a curt nod.   
“It really is a tragedy, none of you saw it coming.”  
“It will break my mother’s dear heart.” the second son adds, completely insincere, smile plastered from ear to ear. He’s the oldest, now he’ll be in charge as far as everyone is concerned, his time has finally come.   
“Such a shame,” Jim shames his way through the condolence as he ashes his fag on the worn carpet of the train’s corridor.   
“Thanks for this.” the eldest blurts as Jim is leaving the car.  
“I was never here m’boy, never here.” and it’s all sing song Irish lilt as he enters the freezing air.   
Jim will contact them when he needs things moved for his own gain, or the gain of his clients. Otherwise he’ll provide them safe passage into all of the countries they distribute to and take a bit for recreational use when he is bored. The sky is that awkward kind of purple-green just before sunrise and it reminds Jim of the gelato he so loves when he’s in Rome. He hums and admires the spires of steam that leave his face as he approaches the kerb while a car is pulling up with precise timing.   
Sebastian stays in Vladivostok for another day to ensure the Nimicolf boys can pull of the scheme and then he’s on a plane, has to fight with too many layovers, and finally in London on December 27th. So much for gifts under the tree, for stockings by your bed, for fruitcake drowned in brandy or even boxing day.   
Jim takes the time to reroute his travel to Rome on the way home, he’s got a sweet tooth and he’s got a flat near the Trevi Fountain. He spends the one night he stays pretending he’s from America and pulling a sweet and unsuspecting young thing back to his bed. He’ll leave no trace and be back to London before the New Year.   
No one said loving Jim would be easy, or have a regular schedule. No one said loving Jim was even possible, or that he could even reciprocate. Come the Epiphany Sebastian finds a small box with a Ka-Bar knife and a note.   
[It’s got your prints all over it. Don’t lose this one Tyger -J]  
Seb looks down to the handle of the knife and sees the dactylogram of his left thumb engraved in the black metal. He doesn’t even know how Jim got that, doesn’t think about it too much. He just sighs a bit of relief as he slots his finger to the cold metal and it warms in his hand.   
Okay, so maybe the first Christmas after Jim had claimed him trigger-finger, body and soul wasn’t complete shite. 

2\. 

Dust has no respect for, or sense of personal space. It’s in Sebastian’s sinuses, so far back he’s pretty sure he can hear it grit against his brainstem. And, Jesus why on Earth would anyone flee to the middle of fucking nowhere if it meant having to put up with plague-like swarms of flies every time you moved. Actually it makes perfect sense, if you’re trying to avoid the wrath of Jim Moriarty your best bet would be to find a quiet town on the outskirts of the globe and hunker down. Too bad, you’re an awful better and dear old Jim has been watching you flee from country to country with poorly made fake passports and truly atrocious wigs. So, Moran is Australia, with the sole mission to kill a woman who thinks she has outsmarted the smartest man alive.   
Sebastian considers just how much he hates the tilt of planet’s axis as he’s wiping sweat from his brow and walking from the stifling, stale heat of the motel room out into the more oppressive wave that is the outside world. He’s going to die of dehydration in this ridiculous above 40C weather while Jim is comfy cozy back in London where it’s soft weather and a bit of rain. There’s nothing for it, so he makes his way to the pub where he found her yesterday. Alice Springs has a good population of decent looking men who spend too much time in pubs. Most of them are already giving each other glances and trying to work up the courage to approach the new girl. The wonderful thing about Sebastian is that he doesn’t ever need to work up anything. He is walking, talking, cocksure arrogance. 

“Fancy a cure, sweetness?” He says as he approaches his target, sallying up to the bar on the empty stool next to her. 

“Is that really your line? Honestly, that’s how you approach a woman you don’t know?” Her tone is flat and hard and she sips whatever fruity concoction she’s got in front of her through two thin cocktail straws. 

“Is it that bad? I thought it had a certain charm to it.” He flashes her a nervous smile, because he knows she’s the type that likes to feel intimidating. He takes it a step further and rubs the back of his neck, mussing what little hair he has at his nape. “Sorry, I, uhm, I don’t mean to bother you.”

He slides down to the next barstool over an orders himself two fingers of Johnnie Walker Double Black, just because he’s working doesn’t mean he has to slum it and it’s the furthest aged they’ve got on the shelves. It’ll do. Just a few years ago Sebastian was the type who’d order a pint of the cheapest lager to chase the cheapest whisky and tell the bartender to keep ‘em coming. It’s funny what Jim has change in him. Sebastian had come from wealth, was raised in formality, but he’d rebelled against it. Jim on the other hand, well, to be perfectly honest Seb had no earthly idea where he’d come from. It was almost as if one day the devil materialised in London and brought with him a fine fashion sense and all the favours poor souls owed him and just became Moriarty. At any rate, Jim’s tastes run on the high end of extravagant and could never be sated. Eventually, after living with the criminal mastermind for over a year, Sebastian forgot that t-shirts aren’t meant to cost fifty pounds and that he ever drank cheap bottles of liquor. 

He lets out an overly dramatic sigh, but it’s believable after he’s just taken most of his drink in one. He’s toiling with the coaster, pretending to be bad at stealing glances at the woman next to him. 

“Lydia,” she says finally and extends her hand while looking him up and down “and you are?”

“I thought, well, I’m August.” it’s not actually a lie.   
“We’re starting over, you were awful at that. Good to meet you Augie, you’re the best looking guy here and I’m alone, so if you still want to buy me that drink.” she says rattling the cubes of ice in her tumbler in the general direction of the barkeep.   
Sebastian flags him down and her glass is refilled within the minute. 

“So, Lydia, you’re not from around here. Holiday?” Sebastian's forced Aussie accent sounds like tin leaving his throat but seems to fall like feather-down on the local’s ears so he keeps up the act, unsure just how Jim does this so constantly.   
“Kind of, you could say that.” she lifts an eyebrow in an attempt to look mysterious or inviting, but Sebastian just thinks it looks ridiculous. She puts her hand on his knee and gives it a squeeze. “Guess you could say I’m just getting around.”  
Sebastian cringed inwardly, is that meant to sound attractive? It sounds like a warning label, and if he were actually out on the pull it would be a red flashing light; but, he’s here to kill her and he’s happy it won’t be all that hard to get her to leave with him.   
They spend too much time with idle chatter, she races through drinks like each one may be her last while Sebastian nurses his whisky.   
Lydia is blathering on about how awful American men are, and isn’t she glad she met such an attractive bloke here. She uses the slang term like she’s proud she’s picked up a simple word and her mouth forms it too intentionally for it to sound natural in her accent. He’s not really paying attention, looking for the break in her story so he can say something that isn’t witty having to do with just how ‘not awful’ he is in the sack.   
He leans in closer to her so he can whisper in her ear and she takes over his movement. Her lips that taste too much like Blue Curacao are against his in a sloppy demanding kiss, she has little coordination left in her but the enthusiasm makes up for the lack of smooth motor skills. Sebastian gives into the kiss, at least her lips are soft. She lets out a sigh mid-kiss, a release of whatever courage she had needed to start it in the first place.   
Sebastian is the one to break from it.   
“I think there’s somewhere better we could be, yeah?”   
His hand slides up her side as he’s standing, running over the gentle curve from her hip to her ribs and then back down. She’s all liquid as she comes off her stool and let’s him guide her out of the ill lit pub.   
It’s dusk outside, and as far as anyone looking at them is concerned they’re just another happy couple stumbling home after a few too many drinks. She clings to his waist with one arm and dips her hand into his back pocket. If he’s honest with himself the touch is nice, he’s been away from Jim for weeks following her around the globe. He makes a mental note about the size of her hands, nearly the size of Jim’s. He can pretend for a bit if he tunes out the sound of her useless murmuring and just focus on fingers in his denims.   
Pretense ends when they get to her hotel, not nearly a ten minute walk from the pub in the centre of the town mall. She fumbles for the electronic card key before pushing open the door.   
The room is pristine, all her belongings are packed saved for a toiletries bag and a change of clothes laid out across the stiff chair in the corner of the room.   
“Were you planning on leaving, or do you just not unpack?”  
She doesn’t answer him, but she presses her mouth to his while she’s on her tip toes and her hands snake down the plane of his belly to find the button at the top of his flies. Her hands are quick and there is no foreplay, she’s got her fingers wrapped around him within seconds. He’s not a good man, but he’s loyal to a fault even if he knows Jim isn’t. But, she’s working him to hardness and he’s closing his eyes and just imagining those small hands belong to the ruthless man he loves. She’s pretty enough, ashy, curly hair and big blue eyes, but she’s not the one he wants right now.   
“August, whad’you want? Hmm?” she asks while kissing down his jawline and he’s made no attempt to touch her. She hums again, asking insistently now that he’s fully erect in her hand.   
He takes her by the arms and pulls her away from himself.   
“What’s wrong?” she’s got her does eyes on, but their hazy and drunk “Don’t you want this? C’mon, you want this. You wanna fuck me don’tcha?”  
Sebastian feels cheap, he’s disgusted with himself for the way she’s talking to him, he feels like meat and not even a good cut.   
“I want you to stop talking.” he pushes her down to her knees and she giggles, thinking his response is meant to be sexy and not as commanding as it is.   
His eyes screw shut and he draws in air like a vacuum in space when her tongue flicks out to lick his glans before her lips envelop him. It’s wrong, so wrong, her mouth isn’t wet enough, her tongue isn’t as clever or as daring and the pace is all off but he doesn’t stop her.   
His phone chimes, and he’s lost the common sense to realise how rude it is to reach for it while getting face. 

[You shouldn’t have.-JM]

Sebastian starts panicking. How does Jim know? How was he supposed to know Jim even cared. He pushes her away none too gently and as she’s flailing and starting to protest that she doesn’t like it rough as he grabs her chin like a handle and the back of her head like a bowling ball and shifts his hands quickly in opposite directions. The protest stops, her body goes limp on the floor and he swears under his breath. 

Another chime, and this time it’s a picture. Jim is in his hunter green Tom Ford suit and a buttercream dress shirt, no tie, just a smile plastered on his face and a pin on his lapel. Seb smiles as the next message scrolls across his screen. 

[It’s beautiful.-JM]

Funny how you lose track of days when you’re jumping through time zones like hula hoops. It’s not even Christmas Eve in London but, like a petulant child, Moriarty insists on opening one gift. Most of the gifts are from himself anyway, well deserved treats for hard work, as though he doesn’t reward himself constantly. Sebastian had insisted on getting him something and making Jim wait to open it, so obviously it was this small tartan wrapped box that was torn into when he arrived home.   
It had taken Sebastian weeks to find something that seemed to fit Jim’s taste and be personal enough to not be put at the back of the closet, or worse, chucked completely. Sebastian used their business contacts - art dealers, antique appraisers, book sellers and forgers- to seek out a piece that was unique enough that Jim would glance at it twice. He found it in a small private collection that had recently been parted with in Montreal, and it came a no small price. A Carl Poul Petersen lapel pin from the early 20th century Danish School of silvercraft. A circular frame with a magpie watching guard over a diamond ring. If that didn’t seem obscure and perfect enough for his lover with a penchant for all things shiny than Sebastian just wasn’t sure what did.   
Sebastian just sighs and his body goes slack. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, admonish himself for letting his target ever touch him and decides that Jim would likely think this is a funny story, he’ll just have to give it some time before bringing it up.   
Sebastian laughed at himself momentarily. At least his reflexes were as good as ever. Embarrassed and blue-balled he tucked himself back into his pants and trousers before opening the door that adjoined his room to hers. He picked her up easily and set her in a hard shell suitcase already laid out on his bed. He took all of her luggage and added it to the pile by the door.   
In the morning, it wasn’t hard to look like the dutiful boyfriend loading the car to continue the journey. The nice thing about jobs like this is that the target has already taken care of ‘disappearing’ themselves, so all Sebastian has to do is drive away.   
When he boards the private plane that he thinks will take him back to England two days later there’s a note for him on the table in the centre of the hull. 

I know it didn’t snow for Christmas, see you on the slopes -JM

Cargo dumps the luggage from the hold once they’re a few hours over the pacific and Sebastian sleeps and dreams of Switzerland for the New Year. 

3\. 

“Bastian, I already said you can’t come.”   
“Jim, I didn’t even know you have family until a day ago. C’mon I’ll behave.”   
It’s been almost four years and Sebastian is still finding out new things about his full time boss and part time lover.   
“No, and that’s an order Colonel.” Pet names are nearly as nice when they’re used as slurs.   
“Fine. Assignments?”  
“Must you always be so needy?” Jim huffs as he’s packing business casual clothes that don’t suit him into luggage that he’d turn his nose up at on any other day. His eyes are sharp and angry as though he’s preparing for battle.  
“Sorry,” Seb’s tone is all sarcasm “I’ll just sit on my arse and await your return.” He flops himself onto the ottoman at the foot of their bed. “What’s with the costumes though?”  
“Do you honestly expect me to go home and announce what I do for a living ‘Oh, hi Mam, you look lovely, sorry I haven’t been back in so long, of course I still love porridge like you made me when I was a boy, oh and by the by I am the world’s only consulting criminal’, no.”   
Sebastian laughs a little at Jim’s rhetorical conversation, it makes sense after all. What doesn’t make sense is why he’s going back after all these years, there’s no reason. Jim continues on with his explanation “She thinks I’m a solicitor, so I let her think I’m a solicitor. She’s probably going to die soon, if you’re wondering why I’m going.”   
“Oh, sorry.”  
“I don’t actually care, I just need to make sure I’m not mentioned in the will. Tracks, Tyger, Tracks.”  
Jim takes a train from London to Holyhead, and the ride alone is enough to remind him why he never wanted to be as pedestrian as the people who are near him. He reads for the duration of the journey but is far from enjoying himself, despite the fact that he’s meant to be on holiday. Four hours later he disembarks only to have to add himself to the mediocre mass of people taking the Dun Laoghaire Ferry over to Dublin.  
He feels uneasy once he steps foot in Ireland, he’s not been here in over a decade and it never felt like home to begin with. He hires a car and drives himself to Templeogue. Thoroughly bored with the entire trip already. There’s nothing for him here, there never was, and now it seems there is even less. He loathes how quiet the streets in this Southern suburb are compared to the hustle and bustle near any of his residences in London. But before the frown can settle itself on his face permanently he slips into character. Jim Moriarty rented this midline four door sedan but it Jamie Brook who steps out of it in front of his mother’s home.   
He knocks on the door and hears “Richard, I told you I was going to leave it unlocked, but you nev..” and his mother’s voice cuts out when she opens the door. He may have an identical twin but a mother knows.   
“Jaime, by God.” she’s stunned in the doorway, holding her hand to her chest as though her heart may give out.   
“Mam, I thought I’d surprise you, it’s Christmas.”  
He’s taken into a warm and strong armed hug, and the smell of her perfume hasn’t changed since he was a child. With reluctance he raises his arms to embrace her, somehow so much smaller than even his own slight frame. They stand in the doorway for what seems to be an eternity before they’re interrupted by the sound of falling groceries behind them.   
“Holy God,” his brother’s voice comes from behind him and immediately Jim finds himself sandwiched between his only living family. He wasn’t expecting so warm a welcome, but apparently his family has changed after a decade of his absence. He thinks to himself it must have to do with his father’s untimely demise and takes comfort in remember the part he had in all of that.   
He’s ushered into the sitting room and asked how he takes his tea nowadays. He doesn’t recognise the furniture, so at least he doesn’t have any awful memories rush up within him. They spend their afternoon catching up, it’s idle chatter that he’d refuse to hold with anyone else, he reminds himself he came here with objectives so he bears through it. His brother tries to make the details of his life more interesting than they are, it’s not as if Richard is telling Jim anything he doesn’t already know.   
“So, looks I’m stuck with two workaholic sons and no hope of grandchildren.” their mother chides as she’s cleaning away the biscuit plate and taking a stack of saucers and cups to the kitchen. Jim sniggers under his breath, if she only knew.   
When they are left alone Jim turns to Richard and informs him that he’s got contact in London, he’s sure he could get his brother better work, television even. Richard is completely drawn in, and it doesn’t hurt that Jim isn’t really lying to him. Moriarty has producers and directors, new agencies and reporters all under his thumb, it really won’t be a problem to get Richard work and it’s a puzzle piece he’ll need later for a game he’s already won.   
Before he knows it he’s being ushered into the narthex of a beautiful old stone church, he wouldn’t go so far as to call it a cathedral despite the fact the diocese seems to have name is St. Midabaria, it seems the Abbey next door bears her name as well. It’s quaint, if misplaced geographically. He resists the urge to glare as a too jovial looking priest approaches him and his family.   
“Siobhán, who’s this you’re bringing back to the fold, couldn’t be Jaime could it?”   
Jim bites back the scathing response that Father Andrew knows very well who he is, gave him his baptism, his first communion and confirmed him in the church all those years ago. And if Jim remembers correctly, which he does, preferred to be on the giving end of head.   
“Oh Father, isn’t it wonderful? He’s come home for the holiday.” His mother replies, with a rosy cheeked smile.   
“I won’t be staying long, have to get back to work. I’ll have to leave after the St. Stephen’s race,” Jim meets the clergyman’s eyes and bites his lip, just to taunt “unfortunately.”  
“You are always welcome in this House, Son.”  
Just the memory of that last word on the priest’s lips is enough to make a red flash of violence swell up, he stays it and wills himself to be the kinder soul he was all those years ago.   
“Thank you, Father.”   
Jim follows his mother and brother to what he assumes is their regular pew, good Catholics, sitting as far back they possibly can without looking as if they don’t want to be there. It’s an odd art, and one that his family has been perfecting for generations.   
The entrance hymn starts up as Jim is fingering the wreath green bulletin for the order of mass. His family sings along, but he can’t bring himself to do it. The first reading, something to do with original sin and the shame of it makes Jim smile. If there were ever a story he so loved, it was that of the fall of man. He doesn’t think of himself as the snake, he’s the apple, he doesn’t have to convince people of his evil, they get one bite to him and they know. Knowledge is not power, knowledge is corruption.   
The Introductory Rites are such a lovely fairy tale that Jim’s mind wanders while the rest of the congregation is likely doing the same. It’s few and far between, like his mother, who hold the word of The Lord so sacred these days.   
When the next hymn starts up his brother elbows him gently in the ribs and give him a look that says ‘c’mon for Mammy’ so Jim opens his plush mouth and sings. He’s got the voice of an angel, truth be told, and though he couldn’t give a shite about the mystical lyrics that come flowing out, he thinks he should sing for Seb sometime. While his body focuses on producing pitch and forming tall hollow vowels his mind takes him to a more tender place.   
In bed with Sebastian, feeling completely debauched and covered in each other’s DNA, he imagines singing him a gentle song, ‘Oh, I’m thinking tonight of my blue eyes, and I wonder if he thinks of me’, because what else but a soldier song for his martial master. The entirety of the jazz standards from lovers to their brave soldier boys during the second world war was easily in his range and already in repertoire.   
Jim is snapped out by his reverie when his mother is tugging his suit jacket to make him kneel. The rest of the mass passes in a mash of rote memorised prayers and half hearted singing. His mind stays on his sniper, he wonder’s what trouble Seb’s managed alone.   
Finally they are allowed to walk home, it’s nearly two in the morning and though Jim is more than accustomed to be awake at this hour, he finds he is exhausted. It’s the skin he’s wearing, it doesn’t fit anymore and he can’t have any proper fun in it. He collapses in the spare room, the bed is not up to par, but then nothing here is. He’s still fully clothed, just toeing his shoes off when Richard opens the door unannounced.   
“Jaime,” he’s cautious, always has been of his slightly older brother.  
“Richie, what is it?” Jim is softer with Richard than with anyone else, even Seb, but that doesn’t mean he’s always been harmless.  
“Didya really mean you’d help me?”  
“Of course,” Jim loosens his tie and shirks his jacket “c’mere.” he opens his arms to his brother and tips his head in a come hither motion. Richard sits on the edge of his bed and unlaced his shoes before scooting his hips up the mattress to fit himself against his twin.   
“Would you do me a favour if I asked one of you?” the lilt in Jim’s voice is musical, like the soft rain that paints the hillsides of their homeland in the spring. Richard looks up at him with sleepy eyes, dark like the remnants of cocoa at the bottom of mug of hot chocolate. Richard is a mirror a Jim, all the good he could have been and never will be.   
“Ar ndóigh, deartháir.” (of course, brother)  
“Beidh mé, lá amháin. Grá agat.” (I will, someday. Love you.)  
Jim runs his spiney fingers through his brother’s hair and closes his eyes with a sigh. It’s been years since they’ve slept next to one another, a holdover habit, a respite from the wrath of their father that still makes both of them more at ease. They fall asleep like little boys, still in their clothes from the day. Dreams come easy for Jim, aspirations of total power and softer things like a cottage somewhere along a rocky shore where he’s old and he has plenty of time to read Ptoleme.   
He’s awoken early in the day by the smell of bacon and hot fresh bread, his brother is nowhere to be seen. Such an old trick, sneaking to his room before dawn.   
Jim rolls over onto his belly and the uncomfortable metal of his dress belt, yawning and stretching to force his body into alertness. Looking at his phone he see’s a string of text messages and voicemails he’s slept through, unusual he hasn’t done that in years; and then he remembers that he never took it off silent after church had ended. 

[Client isn’t happy -SM]  
[Complications with the pick-up. Collateral damage.-SM]  
[You need to get back here, fuckwit is on the case-SM]  
[Boss, seriously, answer your phone-SM]  
[Jim, please, I’ve been calling for hours.-SM]  
[Can’t do this on my own.-SM]

Jim frowns at the last one, he knows for a fact Moran is more capable than he lets on. Who’s to run the web when Jim is gone? Moran. And he needs to realise it. Jim doesn’t bother to listen to the voicemails, just erases them out of spite. 

[I leave for two fucking days and you can’t even handle the simplest of my plans.-JM]  
[Sorry. Boss, it would help if you told me when you set shit in motion.-SM]  
[Don’t get snide with me. If you value your life you’ll be gone when I get back.-JM]

Jim doesn’t give him a time schedule, the threat should be enough for Sebastian to clear out long before he arrives. He gives a low guttural groan and rubs the sleep dust from his eyes. He dresses with practiced proficiency. 

“Mam, I have to go. We’re going to loose a huge account if I can’t make a conference call by ten tonight. I’m so so sorry.” He apologises as he’s walking towards the door.   
“No, Jaime, but it’s Christmas.” Siobhán is flustered and upset by Jim’s abrupt announcement. “Richie isn’t even up yet.” as though that is meant to keep Jim from tending his network.   
“He’s coming to London to see me soon. I’ve got to get to the ferry.”  
“Here, take this witcha then.” she says turning to quickly make a bacon bunty and wrap it in a serviette.   
“Ma, you’re too kind.” he says as he kisses her on the cheek. 

He’s in London eight and a half hours later. Picked up by one of his armed drivers and taken to his condo in Kentish Town. On the ride there he’s pulling strings and arranging matters. By the time he opens his front door the problem is mostly solved, but he needs to make an appearance to ensure it’s all sorted. Not as himself of course, no one knows the face they see belongs to their lord and master.   
As he’s leaving his domicile he sees a tented note on the sideboard with something underneath it.   
‘I suppose this makes me Clytia, however you look at it.’

There is a single heliotrope under the note card. Jim is less angry that Sebastian didn’t know what to do and more angry that he had listened and fled for the night. Jim just hopes Seb doesn’t stay prostrate for nine days. He’s missed his sniper, even if he’s had to work Christmas because of an error in management. 

 

4\. 

As much as he would hate to admit it, as much as he prefers to boast the travels he took before he met Jim, he just can’t lie; he is an awestruck child when he steps off the plane and his feet hit American ground. To be fair, Sebastian has been in America before, but he wouldn’t exactly call layovers in practically identical terminals on his way to Mexico or Canada a visit.   
Jim is in a good mood, and it’s indescribable how that makes Sebastian feels. They’ve actually got sometime before they have to do any work so Jim gives into Sebastian’s pleas to go sightseeing.   
“I don’t see what’s so magnificent about this mile, it’s just a bunch of shops.” Jim grousses as they shove their way through the crowd.   
“Oh c’mon babe, at least enjoy the people watching.” Seb says as he pulls Jim into Bloomingdale’s by the hand.  
“What have I told you about pet names in public?”  
“Not to use them, but ya know what, babe? No one knows us here, just relax and let me buy you something pretty, eh?”  
“With my money.”  
“You’re the one who insists on paying me for my services.” Seb jests but it’s true  
“Yeah well, it’s hard to find someone with your skillset.” Jim says this in complete business tone but follows it up with an obscene gesture, pumping his hand in front of his mouth and his tongue prodding at his cheek. They both laugh and Jim squeezes Sebastian’s hand, leaning his head on the taller man’s arm, not nearly reaching his shoulder.   
It’s the day before Christmas and neither of them have done any proper shopping. It’s a busy year, Jim keeps talking about setting up a Great Game and he’s approaching obsession over Holmes but Sebastian doesn’t mind the sleepless nights and the manic planning. He doesn’t mind the broken glassware he’s got to clean up when Jim wipes his desk clear in a fit, or the verbal abuse; because somedays Jim is just his. So Sebastian has every intention of getting Jim something small, something that can go in a little box and be slipped into a jacket pocket, or be taken out in a famous ‘little brown bag’, but Jim has other plans. After less than an hour and a few thousand dollars dropped Sebastian is carrying an array of every size of brown bag the store offers and a suit in a garment bag slung over his shoulder.   
“Oh, Tyger you spoil me.” Jim says patting his chest.   
The hoard of people that flood Michigan Ave just reminds Sebastian of the shoppers in London. Consumers don’t really change, no matter where you go.   
They get to their hotel, an old and beautiful building, the only thing Sebastian cares about it that the place boasts the invention of brownies and he just has to have one from the first recipe. The ceiling is breathtaking, the kind of thing one expects when walking into the Sistine Chapel, not a hotel in the heart of Chicago; but, then again there is a reason Jim has chosen to stay here.Sebastian is the one to check them in, under the ridiculous name of F. Schneemann, he hands over the bags to the bellhop and takes Jim by the elbow to lead him to the bar.   
In some ways, Jim thinks, it’s nice to be unknown. His name is still the chill down the backbone of any criminal in this town worth knowing, politicians mostly, but his face is a mystery.   
“I’ll have a Fever and he’ll have a Bombardier.” Jim doesn’t bother to ask if the bar stocks all the required liquors for the drinks, he simply expects that they do.   
Drinks in hand they sit in companionable silence. It’s hard for either of them to believe the other wants them around any more, but it works. How or why it works remains a mystery, but that doesn’t stop them.   
“I know we won’t see each other for a few weeks after tonight. So, I’ll only ask you once. Any requests, Sebby?”  
“I bought you something, when you were busy harassing that poor woman in the shoe department. I’d like to see you in my gift.”  
After all this time together and all the things they’ve tried in the bedroom, Sebastian still can’t stifle down a blush as he thinks about Jim in the silk he’s bought.   
“Of course. I’ll even let you take a picture. One. My face can’t be in it, obviously.”  
They smile at each other over their drinks and silently agree to go to the room once they’ve finished.   
The room Jim has booked is on the very top floor, it’s furnishings a mix of modern shapes and historical throwbacks that reminds Sebastian of their primary condo back home. It all works together in colour schemes of peacock and aubergine against silver painted carved wood. Their luggage and shopping is neatly nestled near the entryway of the suite, and Sebastian easily finds the small bag he hid in the largest one to retrieve the gift.   
Jim’s face grows a wicked little smile that shows off his canines and his eye gleam when he realises exactly what Sebastian wants him to wear.   
“Give me a moment darling.” his voice is dulcet and thick as he stalks off to the large washroom.   
Sebastian makes himself comfortable on the massive California king sized bed, shucks off his boots and socks, leaves his shirt on the floor but keeps his pants and trousers on. Leaning against the tufted headboard he unzips his flies and slowly runs his fingers from belly to thigh and back again while he waits for Jim to emerge.   
Stunning, Jim thinks as he takes himself in in the mirror. He turns and looks over his shoulder to get a good look at his bum and readjust the line of elastic that makes his arse look more heart shaped than it would otherwise.   
Jim slinks his way around the frame of the door and runs his hand up the wainscotting.   
“Sorry love, I don’t have heels.” is the first thing from his mouth and the last thing on Sebastian’s mind.   
Seb has lost his words, all he can do is beckon Jim to him with the hand that isn’t stroking himself. Jim sashays towards him and crawls up the length of the bed to straddle Seb’s hips, knees on either side and towering over his keyed up killer.   
“Tell me I’m pretty.”  
“The most gorgeous creature to ever walk this planet.”   
Jim runs his thumbs under the lace of the garter grasping his hips, he pulls it away from his thin frame and releases it so it snaps back to him. Sebastian runs urgent hands up Jim’s silk stocking clad legs, deeply enjoying the feeling of Jim’s hair pressed to his skin under the hosiery. When he reaches the lacey belt at the top of each thigh high his fingers curl under them and he snakes his fingertips under the satin that holds them in place to tease the tenderness of Jim’s inner thighs.   
Jim shudders at the lightness of the touch. It’s not often they move so slowly, usually a fight for dominance that can barely be called sex, save for the fact that it ends in dominance.   
Sebastian brings his left hand to his mouth, makes his fingertips sloppy with spit and then brings it back down to push aside Jim’s black panties and tease his tight arse.   
Jim can’t stand the sensation, the ache in his spine is already too much. He quickly shuffles down Seb’s legs and practically tears boxers away from hard hot flesh before swallowing him down without hesitation. Sebastian closes his eyes and lets a broken breath fall. The things Jim can do with that tongue, with those lips, quite frankly they’re criminal.   
When Seb is panting openly and his hips are jerking up of their own accord Jim pulls off with a wet pop.  
“Fuck me.” it’s not a request, it’s a command and Jim’s eyes burn with it.  
Sebastian pulls Jim atop himself and goes to start fingering him open, adrenaline still coursing through his veins from being so on the verge of finishing moments ago.   
“No, I want you inside me now.”  
“But, you’re not…” and then Jim is forcing Sebastian’s cock head to breach his body.  
Jim whines, it’s not comfortable, it hurts, but he wants the pain, he wants to remember this for the weeks he’s going to be away from his lover.   
“Jesus, oh God, Christ, Jim.” it becomes a litany of crudeness dripping from Sebastian’s lips when Jim starts to ride him in undulating waves.   
“Yes.” the s carries it way around the room on Jim’s hissing breath “come on Tyger, use me.”  
Sebastian’s fingernails grip into Jim’s hips and leave half crescents of blood in their wake as he set a punishing pace, bringing Jim’s thighs and buttocks down on his hips so hard they’ll both be bruised tomorrow.   
At some point Seb’s fingernails grip too tightly at the stocking and tear a run down them, but they were never meant to last longer than tonight. Sebastian is close, and not being an altogether selfish lover reaches for Jim’s cock to stroke him off.   
“Don’t touch me.” Jim says after he slaps Sebastian hard across the face. “Just make me come.”  
Sebastian redoubles his efforts, hold Jim still above him to thrust his hips up quickly, and when Jim starts making helpless sounding yelps Seb knows his angle is spot on. Sebastian bites his lower lip until his mouth tastes like pennies, anything for a distraction so Jim gets off first.   
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.” each exclamation louder and higher pitched than the previous “Se, Seb-o…” Jim is silent for a moment, holding his breath until it hits him “Bastian.” is what he repeats over and over until the final wave of his orgasm recedes and his panties are sticky and streaked a sallow white. Jim settles into a slow rocking rhythm and Sebastian comes, silent, he knows what would come out of his mouth if he spoke. And they just don’t say that.   
Seb only wakes because the other side of the bed has gone cold. He knows Jim has left to make a flight to DC and he has a hit to take care of on the North side before he hops his own plane back to London. On the pillow next to him is a neatly folded pair of black silk panties, the front of them stiff from dried semen. If he were a better man the underwear would go into the laundry bag he’ll pack as he leaves the room. He’s not a better man and so they go in the front breast pocket of the leather jacket he’ll wear to keep him warm when he’s waiting for his target to arrive tonight.   
As Christmas Eve’s go, it’s the best on he’s ever had. 

 

5\.   
The house is silent, well, not silent, there is the dull hum of appliances working in the background, the odd creak in a pipe from the cold. As far as Sebastian is concerned the world doesn’t exist outside his door. He told himself he’d only buy one bottle of cheap scotch, but one turned into a case and he remembers vaguely laughing at the price - not even what one decanture of Jim’s favourite would’ve cost. But, Jim’s not here anymore, now is he? All the refinement Sebastian had come to take comfort in with Jim over the years can burn in hell. There is no need to flaunt, he wasn’t ever the one with the style anyway. So he’s bought the highest alcohol content and the lowest price he could find and he more than half-hopes it will take him to his grave tonight.   
It doesn’t taste right, the cheapness he serves himself out of hand cut crystal glasses. He’s not got it in him to rage anymore. He’s not got it in him to cry. All he’s got left is to half-heartedly drop the rocks glass to the mahogany floorboards. It breaks but it doesn’t shatter, it leave large chunks of potentially dangerous glass on the floor, laying like prisms for the grey light of the day to play through. Sebastian thinks it’s fitting. He didn’t shatter when Jim died, he’s just not whole anymore. Just another expensive luxury in Moriarty’s life, because if Sebastian had meant anything to Jim he wouldn’t have been so damn selfish.   
Sebastian corrects himself out loud.  
“It’s not selfish. Jim was a selfish man, but it’s not selfish.” he’s become a one man running commentary of Jim ‘s death. Mourning is so much harder to do when you’re the only person you’re aware of who knew the man who’s passed.   
No one prays for the Devil and no one misses the sinners.   
Except, why did he have to be gone?  
Sebastian is a sentimental man, not that he ever really expressed that to Jim. He was always so weary of stating his love outright, that he never actually told him. He always thought he’d have the time. But Jim Moriarty does not follow the schedules of mere mortals, with bleeding hearts and aching gums. The closest Sebastian ever got to telling him was at the end of a videochat when he was in Sri Lanka and Jim was reeking havoc in London that fateful month. The connection had dropped but the lag in the speed meant Seb didn’t know he was already cut off when the little words “Love ya boss, be home soon.” fell from his lips. No he hoped Jim had heard him. He’d say it a thousand time in every language he knew if he could just say it once again with his hands and his lips.   
It’s Christmas day, not nearly noon and Sebastian is pissed already. He never got a good one of these with Jim. Work always superseded their private lives, and Seb never thought anything of it.   
He’d texted Jim that morning, let him know that everything was settled. He’d be in the stairwell and his two most trusted fellow riflemen would be in position to take out the other targets. This was their most high stakes job, the biggest and most public thing they’d ever attempted to do. Sebastian had so much confidence that Jim would get away with it that he never stopped to question how. As always, he accepted Jim as the Ringmaster and himself as the assistant that set out all the props and controlled the animals in the show.   
He was busy spotting that ridiculous doctor when he heard the shot, after years in this line of work one knows that fateful sound, the heaviness a round carries when it’s not into thin air. He should’ve killed the doctor out of spite, out of pure insolence, but he froze. For the first time in his career the instinct to kill ran cold in his veins, down his body and out his toes.   
He’s the hand of death, not Jim.   
But Jim was everything and nothing. When he arrived at the back stairwell of St. Barts, avoiding police and the like investigating the demise of that idiot in the stupid hat, Jim wasn’t there. Just a team of men he recognised scrubbing the roof with glutaraldehyde to bleach and remove the crimson stain from the rooftop. Sebastian taught them that. He’s informed of where the body is being taken and cuts of the delivery at the pass.   
He tells himself he cannot bear to see Jim’s lifeless features, and then he tells himself he must if he’s ever to maintain his sanity.   
This isn’t how the game was meant to end, the King doesn’t fall because a soothsayer needs to die.   
Ripping open the black, rough material body bag he only catches a glimpse of distorted features. It’s just the back of his head is gone, but his eyes are blank. No clever glimpse, so fiery shine that tells Seb he’s hatched an elaborate plan. His eyebrows don’t look right because he’s not moving them, his teeth aren’t as straight as they ought to be, but it’s Jim.   
It would’ve been five years with the love of his life only six days ago. But Jim is gone.   
Seb picks up a bit of the useless tumbler from the ground and smiles at it.   
Standing, dragging the bottle of booze in one hand the way a child might a plushie, he makes his way to the record player. He’s been playing the same record every day for a month, but Perry Como doesn’t sound anymore like Jim today, it’s just a bad version. He closes his eyes and tries to remember the way Jim crooned to him in bed. Seb had never known that Jim could sing, let alone sing so well you’d believe he belonged on a stage packing the house every night of the week. When the song asks if blue eyes are thinking of him tonight Sebastian replies.  
“Always thinking of you Jim, I can’t think of anything else.” he’s leaning against the record player, toying the glass between fingertips he’s already nicked on it’s edges. “The network’s gone to shite and that’s all my fault, I’m trying to save what I can, but we both know you were always better at this.”  
The record begins the next track and Sebastian concentrates hard, with squinting, drunk eyes to move the needle back to what he had deemed as their song. After it’s starts playing again he slides down the wall and curls his body into itself as much as he can.   
“What’s one more stripe,Tyger?” he asks himself, but it’s Jim’s voice supplying the question in his mind. He brings the glass up to the back of his forearm, where he’s already got a neat little tally of disgusting white scars. He digs in the non-uniformed jag of a blade and red blossoms in a fat bead in it’s wake. He takes another pull of the scotch and repeats the process. He does this over and over until the pale grey of his thermal is heavy and tacky against his skin. It’s not that he doesn’t feel it, he does, but it’s a better feeling than missing Jim on Christmas again. He shimmies his legs out in front of him and his trousers and pants along with it.   
There’s a scar he recuts and recuts. He hates that he does this because now there is no semblance of it’s original carver’s hand. But he reminds himself, as often that he needs to, that he still belongs to Jim. The angle makes it awkward, and his intoxicated motor skills make it even harder, but he concentrates and manages a not too sloppy recreation of JM into the valley near his hip.   
“It’s Christmas, there should be ribbons.” he mutters before he makes three quick swipes across his thigh.   
Eventually he picks himself up and takes himself to the shower. The sting of the scalding water makes every incision come alive again with white hot nerve pain. It’s grounding.   
Tomorrow he’s got a meeting with who’s left of the Eastern European syndicate he and Jim took rule over all those years ago. So, he butterfly bandages the deeper wounds and carelessly superglues the rest.   
Tomorrow is just another day without Jim. Just like today.   
“Happy Christmas, Babe.” he mutters to the 8X10 on his nightstand and passes out into sheets that haven’t smelled of Jim in ages.

6\.   
Monday is grey and smell of the aftermath of double decker busses. It’s not a bad thing, if anything this is what home ought to smell like. The air is crisp but the wind has died down in the last hour, he’s comfortable now. He watches as Sebastian strolls into Ginger and White in a pair of worn maroon jeans and a heather shooting jacket. Since when did he have any style at all? It looks like he’s smiling, and it looks genuine, but from this distance the minutiae of facial expressions is hard to make out. When he exits the cafe he takes a seat on at a wrought iron table set and cracks open a book. He did always like to read so at least that hasn’t changed, but it seem like the weather would keep him in doors. What is he reading, of all things not that tatty old copy of Memoirs of a Fox Hunting Man, but it is because it’s one of Sebastian’s favourites. The book ought to be smacked out of his hand, trampled in the street and driven over by a lorry. Sebastian should notice eyes on him, he’s still running what little of a criminal empire Jim left him but it’s obvious he’s more at ease with public appearances. Probably because Seb knows how many people he’s killed and everyone else knows a legendary number twice that, he doesn’t worry about his well being.   
Tuesday night is clear, the sky would be bright with stars were it not for the light pollution from England’s heart. It’s a shame Sebastian decided to leave the window treatments up, but infrared gives a good enough description of activity where peaks through blinds do not. Activity is miniscule at any rate. There was a kettle on early, but no food had been cooked or eaten all day from what had been seen. There is just a red-orange, two metre plus blob that’s been at a computer for hours on end. It’s just not right. That’s not Sebastian’s bailiwick, he should be out shedding blood or smiling through sweat soaked fringe after a two hour run, he was a soldier, he was never meant for such a sedentary lifestyle. Just after ten thirty someone comes to the door, seems like a stranger, he shifts his weight from side to side as he waits for Sebastian to answer. Once inside their two forms stand apart awkwardly before there’s an exchange. When it’s obvious the swap was cash and the pair is heading to the bedroom the infrared turns off.   
Wednesday morning has Sebastian leaving the condominium in business wear. It’s recognisable as a suit cut from almost two years ago, bespoke so that it fits him, but obviously borrowed from his predecessor in the business. Navy blue hugs all the right places and falls in flat lines where it ought to, with the exception of a bulge only a trained eye would recognise as a gun flanking his left and right sides - to an ordinary person it just looks like Sebastian is stacked with muscle, which he is, but he’s carrying a different kind of power next to his ribs.   
Sebastian gets in an onyx BMW and it speeds away from the kerb with little to no regard for the traffic it becomes a part of. Reckless Sebastian, drives like he’s piloting a jet fighter. Reckless Sebastian doesn’t care to leave a security detail at this particular bolt-hole. And almost to surprise, Reckless Sebastian never even bothered to change the goddamned locks.   
Jim makes his way into the semi-detatched like he’s coming home after a long days work and not a year of absenteeism. He looks around, it’s all the same furniture, all the same art on the walls but it’s all lost it’s luster. The floors are no longer the deep, rich, polished tone he’d once left them with. There are smudgy fingerprints on the eggshell walls, some are blood, some might be dirt or gunpowder; after months of big hands pressing fingerprints into fingerprints it’s hard to tell. Jim begins to do something he’s never done before- he begins to clean up the place.   
It takes a few hours but he’s masterfully filed away dossiers on clients, rolled up useless maps and pinned the ones Sebastian actually needs for his current projects to the wall. He’s done dishes and his fingers are pruny from the effort, first to retrieve all of the random tea and coffee, whiskey and juice cups as well as plates with half eaten sarnies and then to clean them. It’s a daunting task, but after a year away from his sniper he finds it’s satisfying to undertake. Jim rearranges a few pieces of furniture so that they meet his height requirements. The ottoman is pulled towards the settee and the coffee table is brought to within arms reach. He sits, content with his afternoon’s work, but only momentarily. He’s fidgety by nature, can’t stay still for the world unless he’s got something to focus on. The centre of his attention hasn’t returned home and so he raids the wet bar.   
Jim turns up his nose at the selection at the front of the liquor cabinet, almost disappointed than Seb has slipped back into old habits, knowing full well he hasn’t done so because of financial restraints. At the very back, in a corner on a shelf he finds a bottle of MaCallan 25 that he and Sebastian had opened the day before he stormed the London Tower. Glass in hand he goes to the dining room table and sits at his old place. The feet of his chair seemed not to have moved since he’s been gone, leaving indents in the fine Persian rug below it.   
Jim played various scenarios in his mind, trying to calculate every possible outcome of his reunion with Sebastian. Of all the things he understood - economics, the worth of political friends and foes, the molecular structure of every designer drug he’d ever crafted, the language of the universe and all of the theories of mathematics and physics he had so loved as a young man- he did not understand his relationship with Sebastian. Jim had only ever practiced affectation, displays that signalled the correct social queues in the correct situations, facial expressions were premeditated if only by moments, words chosen to craft outcomes. But, with Sebastian, for reasons unknown even to himself, he had been genuine.   
The problem with that, as the problem always is with truth, is that he had no verified information that Sebastian had been genuine with him. Certainly, at some point, a normal man would have made a declaration of love, a show in some form to express a sense of connection. But, in the four years they had shared a bed, argued over brekkie and dragged one another around the world to create a now reduced empire, the simplest and smallest reassurance of affection had never been muttered.   
Jim is not fond of not being able to control the future. A year on the run, in less than preferred conditions following after the boffin this whole game had centered on to rebuild what had been destroyed had made Jim more paranoid than before, if that is imaginable. What if he were wrong? What if he would not be welcomed back into arms that had once made him feel so small and safe? What if Sebastian had celebrated his death and took the reigns of the business with an enthusiasm he had managed to hide while Jim was still ‘alive.’? Questions about Moran’s loyalty continued to swim through his head for a few hours as Jim stared out the window to the garden, looking for the world as if he were perhaps in a petit mal seizure. Not moving, except for all the gears in his head which were going to strip themselves of traction in their fervor. The line of thought was halted by the realisation that Sebastian could kill him, and the further more surprising epiphany that Jim would be perfectly happy to die in such a way. He laughed outwardly at himself.   
“Oh Jim, what have you gone and done you sod.” he chided to his scotch, watered down from melted ice and not worth drinking at that point.   
The sun had set, the day was done and his Sebastian had still not returned home. Jim positioned himself in the largest of the wingback chairs, elbows perched on either armrest, hand folded neatly in his lap. He didn’t turn on the lights, he sat in the dark and stewed over the jealousy that festered over having seen Seb with another man, even if it had been paid for. When he heard keys at the door he checked his time piece, reading by dim moonlight, 11:58pm. He straightens the pin in his lapel when he hears the tumbler click over in the heavy cylinder. Clomping steps which should be impossible in leather soled spectators track into the foyer and the door is slammed. Then tension Jim senses is like electricity in the air before lighting strikes, but Sebastian hasn’t realised he’s not alone yet and so he only feels the weariness of the day.   
When the light goes on in the study it’s show time. Sebastian immediately has his back against the doorframe, Jim hears the pivot of leather against the floorboards, the distinct click of a safety coming off and a hammer cocked back instantaneously. It’s good to know his killer hasn’t lost his touch.   
“Whoever is in Moriarty’s house better be looking to die, I don’t have time for this fuckery.” He calls out as he sweeps the study, strafes to the kitchen and blindly turns on the light there to sweep it as well. He’s such a good soldier when all that training kicks in. Jim sees his shadow moving towards the drawing room and he smiles.   
“Oh and who is it that’s living in my house now, Tyger?” The question is a song when Sebastian’s hand reaches the light switch and Jim is illuminated. For a split second their eyes meets and a shot goes off and pierces through the couch to Jim’s right.   
“Careful now, I know I’m not wrapped but you don’t want to go and ruin your only Christmas gift do ya, Bastian?” Even in the face of possible death Jim’s snideness never fails him.   
Sebastian stands silent in the doorway, his eye transfixed to a point in the centre of Jim’s forehead. One handedly and with barely a movement Seb drops the magazine from his gun, terrified by the notion that if this is Jim and not some how a cruel joke, he’d almost shot him. The other reason he drops the clip is another fear in his mind, that he would want to shoot Jim for having lied.   
Sebastian has been dreaming of this since the day he saw Jim in that body bag. Had hoped Jim was far too vain to have taken his life, had awaited a day when Jim would pop out from around a corner and yell ‘you should’ve seen the look on you face’ or ‘gotcha’. But now that Jim was in front of him he almost wished he weren’t. Seb stepped into the room, closed the space all at once between him and the man sitting. Jim, for his part smiled and cocked his head to the side.   
His eyes were right, his teeth were perfect, and by perfect Seb meant that they were the way they ought to be, the left lateral incisor just a little too sharp and the medial one next to it had an almost unobservable chip out of it’s left corner. Sebastian remembered how that happened, a night with too much wine and not enough glasses, after they had thrown them all at the wall for laughs, led to drinking straight from the bottle and Jim had let the dark green glass of the cabernet container slip from his hand, it broke his tooth. The smallest skin tag under Jim’s eye still sat as it always had on the fold there. His stubble was gone, he’d always had such a light dusting that without it, even past a year’s time he looked younger. When Sebastian’s eyes dropped to Jim’s body it wasn’t the expertly tailored suit, or the fine leather watch, or the way he’d crossed his fingers so they were as a concert pianists before a performance that validated his identity. It was a small, now somewhat tarnished lapel pin, displayed proudly over his heart.   
Overall, Sebastian was convinced the man in the chair before him was Jim in under ten seconds. As old wive’s tell tales, the heart knows.   
With silent tears streaming down his face he took Jim’s into his hands and brought their foreheads together. Just to smell him again, this close and warm, was to be reborn. Seb’s lips tentatively glided over Jim’s, not really a kiss, a brush of skin on skin with shaky breaths to hold it all together.   
“Sebby, I…” Jim whispered against wind chapped lips  
“Don’t talk.” Sebastian ordered, and for the first time in all his years knowing Jim, felt he had the right to give a command. Jim obeyed, the sniper being only man who could ever put him in his place.  
Sebastian kissed him, deeply but not roughly, tasting and exploring Jim’s mouth as though it was his first kiss and he were unsure of the mechanics. Jim sighed into the kiss and ran his hair through Sebastian's hair which was shorter than he’d prefer on the sides, but still honey yellow and soft on his fingertips. Seb’s hands drop from Jim’s cheeks so that one arm may wrap around his shoulders while the other hitches under Jim’s knees. It’s an abrupt movement, but Jim is thinner than he used to be and Sebastian is just as strong as ever. He picks Jim up as a bridegroom would a bride, their kiss not breaking but noses swapping from one side to the other and their breathing through each other’s mouths. As Sebastian starts walking to the bedroom Jim moves his mouth down, along a square jawline with the stubble of a day to texturise it, then to the side of Seb’s neck that is closest to him to softly such lilac blooms in his wake. Seb’s response is to whimper at the wet and warm sensation as he turns to the side to fit them through the doorway to the master suite.   
Seb all but tosses Jim onto the mattress, and he bounces a bit against the marshmallowy mass of eider down blankets and pillow top beneath him. Seb has shed his suit jacket and tie haphazardly by the time Jim opens his eyes from the smile the manhandling had put on his face. He goes to follow suit and start to loosen the St. Andrew’s knot at his neck, pulling at the silk so it slides past itself.  
“Don’t move.”  
Jim’s hands go up in the universal sign cooperation, his eyebrows arching comically on his face as he listens to Seb’s demand.  
“Please, just, just let me.” Sebastian doesn’t exactly know what he’s asking permission for. All he know is that he want to worship every inch of Jim that he can, with every sense he’s got available and he just needs Jim to let him do that, however it turns out.   
Sebastian strips out of the rest of his clothing, making no show of it and ignoring the intense look Jim gives him when his new scars are revealed. Ugly red and white crags in his skin that he can’t blame on adventure this time. But, Jim never minded the battle scars before the mess at St. Bart’s and he certainly doesn’t mind them now. If anything, the newly torn and mended flesh is just the visible damage he’s left on Sebastian - he put Seb on the frontline of a war to survive without so much as a draft notice, seeing the lines now, Jim understands how hard a battle it’s been for his Colonel to make it this far without him.  
Sebastian takes his time to slide Jim’s jacket off his shoulders, mapping the dip of his scapulae along the way. He takes Jim tie in his hand and continues to loosen the silk, but before the knot falls apart he presses the accessory against the bed, effectively strangling Jim. Jim doesn’t fight it, just meets Seb’s eyes and silently acquiesces his life. When the vein’s in Jim’s temples distend Sebastian lets go, pulls the silk away and sends it flying to the floor while he kisses what little air Jim has left in his lungs away. The change in mood doesn’t affect their eagerness to continue and when Sebastian starts kissing swaths of skin revealed by unbuttoning Jim’s shirt Jim cannot help but to arch into the sensation.   
Seb knows Jim is ticklish just above his belt line, he takes advantage of it a nips across the trail of hair from Jim’s belly button and then over, hip to hip, until Jim is a giggling mess and Sebastian can’t fight back a small laugh as well.   
Jesus, when was the last time either of them had laughed.   
The airy sound Jim is making dies in his throat the moment Sebastian in nuzzling his face against Jim’s inner, upper thighs, his nose nudging against bollocks and then hot breath and soft cheek are rubbing along his wanton cock.   
Sebastian has no trouble flipping open the leather dress belt, or any of the fasteners on Jim’s trousers. Both pants and trousers are shucked in a faster maneuver than Jim’s shirt had been. Sebastian wanted to take his time, but he only has so much patience. Jim’s cock is bobbing in front of Jim and he can see dark brown eyes looking down the line of Jim’s body, watching, waiting.   
Seb wraps his hand around the base of Jim’s prick, locks his lips around the head and it’s hard to tell which of them is making the sobbing noise at the contact. It’s sloppy, Seb can’t really keep a rhythm but his enthusiasm more than makes up for it. Seb is out of practice, it’s been more than a year since the last time he gave head. Sure he’s had sex, but he’s paid for it, or took it where he could, but then it was a selfish act, a way to block reality, even if for just ten minutes at a time. But now, now he wants to worship Jim, the love of his life that he thought he’d lost permanently.   
Sebastian lifts one of Jim’s legs so his knee is bent and his foot is planted, the other follows suit out of instinct. Seb runs the hand not pumping Jim’s cock from the back of the knee to the small crease where thigh becomes arse and back up again, fingernails just barely dragging along the way. His lover starts to writhe under the teasing touch and as much as he loves to feel Jim this wound up, he needs release himself. Both of his hands find the crook of Jim’s knees and with a quick tug Jim’s ankles are over Seb’s shoulders and Seb’s face is pressed between Jim’s arsecheeks. Jim reaches down, takes himself in hand but just to squeeze hard enough to stave off an orgasm as Seb’s tongue darts out to taste him in quick rapid motions. Jim’s pulls up his bollocks and bowls his hips to give Sebastian better access. Both of them are making noises their throat haven’t felt in ages, deeply satisfied hums, whines of ‘too much’, ‘not enough’ and the type of panting breathing that leaves one feeling like they have laryngitis when it regulates later.   
When there is saliva running down the curve of Jim’s arse, Sebastian’s jaw and soaking the sheets Sebastian slides two fingers into Jim, scissoring them, and twisting so he can flex them and drag over Jim’s prostate.   
“Sebastian.” Jim pleads desperately, but has no other words left in his vocabulary with which to do so.   
Sebastian looks up at Jim, flushed chest heaving. When their eyes meet the conversation is quick and easily understood. Seb climbs his way up the mattress, hovering over Jim’s small frame, he wipes sticky spit from his face with one hand and dries it off on the sheets. Jim kisses him full mouthed as soon as his hand is out of the way and he brings one leg up so his knees is at the level of Seb’s ribs.   
Usually Seb closes his eyes when he buries himself in someone else body, it makes the focus the pleasure, it makes the act selfish and raw, but with Jim he struggles to keep them open and not give into habits. Jim’s mouth drops open into a lovely ‘o’ that distorts as Seb presses in deeper, eventually Jim’s eyes couldn’t open if he willed them and his upper lip is snarled to the right, the tip of his tongue on the edge of his upper teeth and then he breathes and his whole body falls apart.   
Jim claws at Seb’s shoulders, wraps his leg around Seb’s hips and sets their pace. There isn’t an argument when the pace shifts from quick to slow, from deep to shallow. All the sensations are welcomed.   
Soon enough Sebastian is moaning half formed syllables and then sucking in his bottom lip and almost frowning in concentration. Jim is humming, it’s almost melodic but there’s no metre to it.   
“Shhhhh.” Seb takes left hip in his right hand and steadies their pace so it’s not erratic, but constant and just fast enough not to break their sanity.   
“Come with me?” and it’s a surprise that Sebastian is asking, since this whole night he’s been giving orders. Jim just nods and starts stroking himself between their bodies. Jim’s back flexes up of the mattress the closer he gets to finishing and they are a desperate chorus of sighs and moans and partial growls.   
Seb dips his head down, his mouth level with Jim’s ear.   
“I love you.” he says slowly, enunciating so it cannot be misconstrued.   
Jim opens his mouth to reply but is silenced with a searing kiss.   
It’s maybe a minute more, maybe an eternity, but Seb’s hips are churning into him and his hand is pulling in earnest. They come as close together as they can manage.   
Jim throws his dirty right hand to the sheets beside them, Seb doesn’t move for a minute, still kissing his love.   
When they finally separate they stare at the ceiling together, minds as blank as stark off white above them.   
“I feel that was rather more my gift than yours.” Jim sighs out as a joke  
“Well, tomorrow is Boxing Day. Isn’t that when the Boss gives back, eh?”


End file.
